


when our momma sang us to sleep but now we're stressed out

by heygorgeous



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Detective AU, Detective Noir, M/M, Other, Slow Build, i don't even know why i'm writing this i'm going to hell, it's as accurate as miss abbot's southern accent, kind of?, set in 1950s america, warnings may change idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 10:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4915819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heygorgeous/pseuds/heygorgeous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Unless we get frightened of people."</p><p>Post-island; Detective AU in 1950s America; Ralph and Jack are once again, on opposite sides of a serial murder - only this time, there's no telling who's right, or who remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue: it's abbot (ha) time

**Author's Note:**

> i really wanted a fic where they grew up - see how they dealt with the entire island incident. but then i got sidetracked so i'm gonna be trying out a detective au haha this is a really slow build !!  
> also i tried googling all types of accent and, well, it's not working out too well but you should be able to understand most of what they're trying to say.  
> title from stressed out by twenty one pilots.
> 
> of course, it's not historically accurate- i'm gonna be tweaking a few events here and there! enjoy ',:)

He was two minutes early, a habit he’d picked up from his father. The office was neatly disorganised, as usual, and Miss Abbot was at her desk looking as though she’d never left.

“Yer know, for a punk, ya ain’t half-assed,” Miss Abbot crooned from behind her whisky glass. “I’d be putting up all signs, wond’rin’ where the good ol’ Brit’sh chaps were, but _you_ -” here, she hiccupped and laughed it off, “-just come in, and blow half the pickles off my hat.”

Ralph nodded uncomfortably, shifting to place his hat and coat on the hanger by the door. “Yes, Miss Abbot.”

“Ah, he speaks! Finally, ‘was here, thinkin’ ya ain’t learn to do anythin’ with that pretty lil’ mouth of yours ‘cept to suck on lollies,” Miss Abbot laughed, a crude chortle. “ _Lollies_ , boy. Now don’t look so scandalous – you’ve got one of ‘em, no?”

Opting not to answer, Ralph gathered his files and marched back to the tiny desk that was his. Sectioned off by a measly wooden shield, he worked hours in the corner of _Abbot and Co._ ’s, sieving through reports of theft and the occasional cheating spouse. The desk was alright – a short, vile thing that shed bits of brown paint upon enthusiasm and friction – but the chair left more to be desired. It was equally as short, stumpy, and hard. Ralph considered asking if he could replace it with something more cosy, but then considered the least of what Miss Abbot could say, and found it easier to stay silent.

On the wall, above him, hung a portrait of Christ pinned to the cross. Miss Abbot had consulted his opinion on the sight quite a number of times before, and thankfully kept the conversation prayer-rated. It was striking, definitely, but over time, Ralph found that it had accumulated grime and dust, yellowing at the edges of the frame. The smear of the dirt looked like disjointed handprints, as though someone made to move them. Next to it was the sun-shadow marks of an earlier portrait that was taken down. Miss Abbot never made it her business to explain, but seeing the many other pictures referencing the Bible, Ralph couldn’t be sure it was yet another prized portrait of the elusive Christ.

The window opposite was barely masked by a translucent, shimmering cloth hanging by the hooks. Perhaps the constant exposure to the sunlight had the once-yellow curtain fading into a paler white. Ralph looked upon the office with a twinge of bittersweet; he hadn’t wanted to work here, but now that he was, he couldn’t find anywhere else better to be.

“Ya know, darling, nothin’ ever happens ‘round here. If we were New York, _think_ , murders lightin’ up the streets like it’s fuckin’ Christmas. Or Chicago- ya saw the murders, _three_ _boys_ in a ditch, and we don’t get to hunt down the bitch that did them,” Melanie sighed, pursing her lips. “See, I ain’t half pissed we don’t got murders down here in San Francisco, but this is just- frankly, it’s pissin’ me off.”

“Miss Abbot,” Ralph said.

“Well,” and here, Miss Abbot shuffled through the papers before her. “Here’s to startin’ anew with a missin’ burger- sorry, burglar. Ain’t you hungry, got yourself some munchies before comin’?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Damned like a dolly without her miss, I am. Movin’ up North ain’t doing us good, I see. Shoulda gone straight to Scot’nd Yard, I should’ve,” Miss Abbot said, carelessly tossing a newspaper cutting behind her. “That’s where all ya mystery knuckleheads go, don’t they? Do some Sherlock, get their kicks, kick some asses, whatever’s up with the chips in London.”

“Miss Abbot,” Ralph tried again.

“I’m just sayin’, it ain’t normal, ya know? So many people in such a small, fine city, it ain’’t right if no one’s going about more hanky panky. What’s that they say, too many a man make evil a bustlin’ business alright.” A sniffle, and then the cringe of the whisky glass against wood. “We need money, hon. And it ain’t gonna come in if everyone’s doin’ good.”

Ralph shut up, ticking away at the clients who had paid up.

“I bet ya have more murders there, ain’t ya? More ol’ evil working in gloomy ol’ London?” Miss Abbot sighed dreamily. “A nice lil’ drama to spice things right up our alleys…”

Ralph unclenched the fist he was holding. “No, ma’am.”

Miss Abbot eyed him warily. Ralph stared back, and tried not to flinch at Miss Abbot’s remarkable snout that was crinkling. Miss Abbot broke away first, swirling the contents in her whisky glass.

“Right, sure they don’t. Pack o’ Brit’sh sure could put up a better show than us edgy ‘ _Muricans_ ’, ya?”

Something wormed its way into the thicket of Ralph’s brain, and he swallowed instead, forcing the bile back down his throat. But Miss Abbot was already rattling off the list, searching for a suitable case.

_

There are times when Ralph wished he had moved further than San Francisco; it’s, laterally, the furthest he can get from London while remaining in America, but it’s never far enough. There are times he has heard the rush of ponies clambering behind him, only to turn and find the streets empty.

Some part of his family still calls, and the last time it had been a soft worry that spoke through the receiver, “Hello? Is this Ralph?”

“This is he,” Ralph had said, fingers gripping hard. “May I-?”

“Ralph,” the voice uttered. “Ralph, Ralph-”

“Who is this?”

“It’s your mother. Your sister, she’s-”

“I don’t have a sister,” Ralph had hissed, before adding, “Nor a mother. I’m sorry, ma’am, but you might have gotten the wrong number.”

Miss Abbot was there right after he slammed the phone back, her smile working magic as she dragged him out for some good ol’ American junk. They didn’t speak of the phone call, a part of the deal that they had made when they met each other at the start of the year: no families, no questions about families, only crime-solving and the occasional prayer.

_

Miss Abbot wasn’t anyone too extraordinary, Ralph noted. She was average in looks and height, but made up for all of that with her exaggerated Southern accent and her knack for picking out the key clues to solving any mystery. Of curves, she had streamline waves trailing from her head, a shock of light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, rarely framing her face. Otherwise, she was rather symmetrical and rectangular in her posture – chin up, eyes lit and legs staunched, ready to run.

She had started the company some time before Ralph entered the scene, and claimed to need an assistant. How she could afford one, with her terrible habit of turning down too many cases that were deemed boring, was a mystery. Perhaps it had something to do with her family, since she had been allowed (or not) to travel up North by herself anyway.  A young- but older than Ralph- lady, she’d no respect for conventions, something that Ralph might have found admirable if that did not translate into forgotten monthly salaries and reckless attempts at capturing criminals.

“Woulda believe it! Turns out the damned cat _was_ in the house all the time, and they didn’t lis’en! What idiots. Y’all’d do best to hear a gal when it comes to cats, ya hear?” Miss Abbot yelled upon her return, dropping her coat on the hanger.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But I got the pay, ‘s no use hidin’, Ralph, I see ya worryin’ about the dough, darling,” she teased, wagging a finger at Ralph’s blank look. “Ya see, now, one, two, three, four, five- _six_ fresh new babies for ya.”

He took the wad of cash from her. “Thank you, Miss Abbots.”

“Ya welcome. Would do ya some good to get a new haircut. And a good ol’ nose-wipe for that daint’ lil Brit’sh nose of yours,” she barked.

He forced a laugh for her sake. But when he did, Miss Abbot was staring at him all weird. He realised, a moment too late, that it was concern registering on her face.

“Ya alright?”

Ralph cleared his throat, and assumed (with a surprising amount of difficulty) his usual blank look. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Coulda sworn…” she said, but turned away sharply, and started on the pile of cases on her desk with renewed vigour. “Got more dough to bake, ain’t it seem?”

For some reason, it seemed as if the walls were creeping in on him. Ralph found himself looking at the window opposite him, seeing the glimmer of reflection against the steel window frame. It was a really hot day, and the curtains would whisper, so that spots of sunlight slid around its folds.

When Miss Abbot snapped her fingers, Ralph glanced down at his pile of words hurriedly, blinking away the sudden sun-blindness. For a moment, he started, and blinked harder, ignoring the pounding at his temples – the word, ‘ _pig_ ’, in capitals, at the centre of the page –

“Ya sure ya alright? Don’t want a corpse here if I can’t solve its murder,” Miss Abbot’s voice was strange and foreign, and it kept Ralph from falling back into the familiar comforts of an older life.

“Yes, ma’am.” He looked back at the page, and found that it meant to say ‘big’.


	2. chapter one: when you're looking for a bang but you get all banged up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how do they arrest people in the 1950s i will never know.

Ralph had just gotten back from a particularly difficult client. They’d paid good money, even if the case was only some ordinary complaint about shifty eyes. It took only one look at his face for Miss Abbot to announce that they were done for the day, confirming that he looked like shit.

Now they were out, dimmed streets stretching at shadows and definitions of faces such that every unintended stranger looked too familiar. They were all marked for doom – slanted bruises melting as the streetlights struck various edges and curves. Ralph risked looking at the paved road rather than the heavy coats before him. A similar thought from somewhere long ago struck him, unbidden, and he swung open the door of a nearby bar instinctively.

“Nice, didn’t think ya got it in ya to choose The Maid’n,” Miss Abbot complimented. “They’re a bit of a price pincher, but they’ve got a real deal.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ralph said, squinting into the darkness.

Miss Abbot pat him on the back, and they stumbled onto the counter seats. The lamps above them were tangles of wire and battered grains of phosphorescence, shimmering like spangled constellations. Ralph looked back down again, and rubbed his eyes for good measure, for there was a glass of something green and bright in front of him. The bartender stared at him, wide-eyed and serious:

“From the gentleman over there,” she said softly.

Miss Abbot unsubtly glanced over her shoulder, and giggled. “You’re up tonight to get lucky, ain’t ya? Go on, thank the handsome man over there.”

Ralph considered the drink before him. “I-”

“He’s not bad-looking, ya know. He’s really good at lookin’- see, he’s basically fuckin’ ya inside-out with those bedroom eyes. Jus’ take the drink, and get yourselves t’eh nearest room.”

Ralph found his cheeks uncharacteristically hot. “Miss Abbot-”

At this, Miss Abbot grabbed Ralph by the ear and pulled him close. “Ya got a hot one lustin’ all over ya, and I’ve got a hot one I’m lustin’ all over, so do me a favour and get that stick outta that cute ass so I can get some.”

When Miss Abbot pulled away, she winked at the bartender, and shot Ralph a glare. The cue was taken, quite immediately, except that Ralph didn’t know how exactly to- proposition, or if it was reciprocal. At Miss Abbot’s second shove, Ralph found himself walking towards the direction the bartender had pointed towards. He couldn’t quite make out the man who had offered him the drink, except that he had strong shoulders, and his hat was slung to the side, over an ear, almost like a –

“Thank you for the drink,” Ralph said, raising his glass.

The man did not reply immediately. Ralph stood awkwardly, and took a sip from his glass, before twisting slightly to glance at Miss Abbot. It was no use; she was leaning casually against the bar counter, cheeky smile in place – steamrolling through phase one of her plan of attack. The bartender, however, seemed disinterested.

“You are?” the voice was deep, and Ralph couldn’t quite guess at his accent.                        

Ralph steeled himself, “It is polite, where I come from, to introduce yourself first.”

Now that he was used to the dimness of the bar, he saw that the man was well-defined; cheek bones and a strong jawline marking his clean-shaven face. But the hat he wore kept his eyes shaded. The man gestured towards the seat opposite him. Ralph sat, cautiously placing the glass down on the table between them.

“Where you come from,” the man repeated, amused. “Is not America.”

“It isn’t,” Ralph agreed politely.

The man made a show of considering his own glass, before leaning back. “I’m only looking for a good time, and you look like one. But for convenience, you can scream ‘Jack’ tonight.”

“Not ‘Jack’,” Ralph said quickly.

The man – though his eyes were hidden – looked at him strangely, before smiling patronisingly. “Alright, but since ‘Not Jack’ will be quite a mouthful, maybe we’ll go with ‘John’.”

Ralph took another sip. “You’re arrogant, aren’t you, thinking I’ll be screaming your name when-”

“Oh, don’t be coy,” John said, laughing. “We both know you’re interested.”

Ralph shrugged. “Perhaps.”

John gulped his drink in one go, before walking out of the bar. “When you’re ready, prude.”

There were two possible ways the scenario could pan out: Ralph follows John, gets a good shag for the night, and returns a slightly less tensed (or more) man for tomorrow; Ralph stays behind, moping as a third wheel to a very indiscreet Miss Abbot, and avoids exiting the bar till John leaves. Glancing behind him to see Miss Abbot still attempting her seduction, Ralph downed the shot, and left the bar.

“Well, wasn’t that fast?”

“I don’t think you intend to go slow tonight,” Ralph bit back, palms sweaty against his pants pockets. “Hit the road, John.”

Bricks the hue of dusty red stacked the streets, only to be interrupted by the occasional glare of a streetlight. The wet-warms of a cigar’s smoke was diluted by the light rain earlier, and when infused with the damp scent of the ground, appeared sooty, yet thin. Someone was choking behind them, and hands were smacking at tables. The glass panels of closed stores continued to mirror their disjointed bodies walking at uneven paces.

It took two streets and a darker alley before Ralph realised that John was lagging behind. When he turned back, something blunt whacked him in the face, and left him stunned.

_

The room was a good deal of darkness, and there was a musk of rotted driftwood in the air. By the sides of the windowless wall there seemed to be a low whine rising, mottling into cemented shadows in the chipped corners between the roof and the two perpendicular borders. The gas that hung heavy in the room sagged so much that it appeared dense, thick like saturated fog sitting above the three bodies in the room.

Ralph woke up to the stench, vision almost bluish purple with the skim of dawn-light pouring through the sole window of the room. He stretched his arms experimentally, reaching around him for the floor. Once he was able to steady himself with a cold palm, he pushed himself into a sitting position. His head throbbed painfully, as though someone had roguishly carved out a jagged scar along the jungle of his hair, past the roots and dragged the sharp end of the blade around his temples.

But other than his head, nothing else was hurting. He croaked, “J-John?”

There was someone beside him. Ralph felt for what seemed like the arm of a warm, brown man, but recoiled almost immediately. The body was cold.

“God, just, shut up-” someone else groaned. “It’s- cold-”

“No, you shut up. You get up.” Ralph found it in him to push past the morbid laziness of the room, and climb to the other person. “You get up!”

The stranger was angular, thin, and tall – the black cloak did little but to hide only his face; Ralph didn’t quite know who he was, from the way he slumbered peacefully against the hide of the wall, away from the light from the window.

Ralph tried again, pulling at his cloak. “You get up! You get up now!”

When the cloak fell, a disgruntled squint met Ralph, and the shock of bright red hair came into view. “What the fuck is your problem?”

Ralph twitched. “I-”

The man crumpled his freckled face, nose scrunching up and sniffing the air. “This isn’t right. Where are we?”

The man got up, yawned, and as his light blue eyes refocused on the unmoving body in the centre of the room, they narrowed into two parts confusion and one part irritation. “You put that body there?”

Ralph glanced down at the man’s hand that was once hidden in the shadows. It was clenched tightly around a knife. When the man with the blue eyes looked down, he jolted back and turned his head up defiantly to glare at Ralph-

“What the fuck-” he snarled, but before he could complete his sentence, Ralph backed away, and-

The door swung open, and a mean-looking police entered, gun in hand and satisfaction tearing away at his grin.

“So that’s the third murder you’ve thought you got away with, huh!” and then, gleefully, “and the murder weapon with you!”

Two more policemen backed him up, pointing their guns at every person in the room.

“No, this is some misunderstanding-”

“Mister ‘Hunter’, you’re under arrest for the murder of three teenage boys. You’d better drop that knife before I add another charge for attempting to resist arrest.”

Ralph watched, silent.

The (chief, Ralph supposed) policeman turned to Ralph, and then back to the man with the blue eyes. “You’ve got an accomplice?”

The man glanced at Ralph, irritation flashing in his blue eyes, and said, “No. I don’t have an accomplice to a crime I never-”

The clicks of a handcuff shut them up, and Ralph found himself in the back of a police car, hands in the same cuffs.


End file.
